


Talking Heads

by ohmyohpioneer



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:18:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1742867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyohpioneer/pseuds/ohmyohpioneer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Office!AU. Emma and Killian work dead-end jobs at Storybrooke Sailing and Sundry: your one-stop shop for all sailing equipment and hardware.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Pam and Jim were one of my original OTPs...how could I not?

“Do I like Emma? Of course I like Emma. I like everyone in the office. Well, except for maybe Archie in HR. He’s bloody awful, isn’t he?”

\---

Killian finds himself (just like yesterday and the day before that) drawn to the way her shoulders hunch and her sandy golden hair falls about her when she bends to correct a mistake on a memo.

“Oy, Swan,” he taps his fingers on the ledge of her desk, watches the way her eyes flutter to his in annoyance.

She sighs at the errant smudge of whiteout now marring the page. “Now’s not the time, Killian.”

There have been threats of downsizing flying around for months, and he can see how the concern for her job (and by extension her son) has started to pull tired lines under her eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he gives her his winningest smile and reaches deep into the pocket of his slacks. “I think it’s the perfect time for this.”

Between his thumb and forefinger, he thrusts into her line of vision a misshapen, purple,  _glittery_ …thing.

She crosses her eyes at the too-close object. “What the hell is that?”

“This, Swan,” he looks at his treasure with great admiration (with Emma, half the joy is in the showmanship; the way she rolls her eyes but forces the corner of her month to remain turned down), “Is a magic bean.”

Her eyebrows shoot high on her forehead, “Come again?”

Killian spares a theatrical glance over his shoulder to the office beyond where their coworkers are slumped and bent and broken in spirit, dully typing away – not a glance spared toward the reception area.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a magic bean, love,” he leans over the partition further, grasping her hand and with little effort, pries her fingers open, and under her skeptical watch, gently places the bean in the soft center of her palm. 

He doesn’t think too much on the way he continues to cradle her open hand in his own (he tries not too think on any of their casual brushes and touches more than is strictly necessary), and brings his voice to a low rasp. “You see, an item such as this holds greater power than either you or I could ever hope to comprehend.” 

“Is that so?”

He hums agreement at her husky question and rubs his finger lightly over her knuckles.

“You made this with your niece last night, didn’t you?” her husky tones match his own. 

“Aye, I did,” he agrees with fake regret, “But it’s quite the forgery, wouldn’t you say?” 

And she’d cottoned on the moment he removed the strange article from his pocket, but this is a familiar game and their rules never change. Lines form between her brows as she thinks (she’s a gorgeous actor, really, spot on), and she tilts her head in a masterful choice. “A giant himself wouldn’t be able to tell, surely a layman wouldn’t know the difference?”

“Now you’re thinking, Swan,” he taps his lips. “It’s too bad we don’t know anyone in need of such a magical totem.”

Then, the  _pièce de résistance_ , the moment in their dance when they spin in perfect time – she grins wide, her eyes sparking mischief. “Ah, but that, good sir, is where you are wrong.” 

\---

“Well, I’ve worked here about four years now. It’s not…it’s not my ideal job, no. But with my son, Henry, it’s steady and safe…it’s got health insurance. Dental. Kid’ll probably need braces in a few years. Killian? No, no, Killian’s a great friend, but, um, I’m trying to make it work with Henry’s father, Neal. He works here, too, actually. Warehouse.”

\---

“I don’t know, Killian,” she sits on the corner of his desk, folders her arms, and he definitely does not take in the way her sweater pulls gently at her shoulders, rides up slightly at her side. “All I am saying is, I was on my way to the grocery store and this old man popped up out of  _nowhere,_ ” her hands flap about in a brilliantly executed move, “and gave me  _that bean_.” 

That’s his cue: He tilts back in his ergonomic chair and casts her his most incredulous look, “But  _magic_ , Emma? Magic isn’t real.”

The telltale sound of aggressive typing coming to an abrupt halt signals a successful first act; a tuft of blonde hair appears over the monitor of Killian’s neighbor, and it is time for act two.

“I  _swear,_ Killian,” her voice drops to a stage whisper that is somehow louder than her speaking voice. “There was, there was this hole in the ground? And then he was just there. He said,” she bends toward him and she smells like  _heaven_ (which is not remotely part of their play, but he finds unavoidable to note), “he said it can open up portals to entirely new  _worlds_.”

They let the words rest on the paperwork-cluttered desk between them.

“ _What?_ ” 

She nods fervently, send golden waves bouncing around her face. “And then he  _showed_  me,” she gulps now – pure awe and  _fear_  in her eyes and he could  _kiss_  her (for her dedication to this scene, of course, for her willingness to indulge his boredom). “Killian.  _It worked._ ”

Before he even has a chance to chime in, to play off her perfectly acted dialogue, a voice breaks (loudly) into their hushed discussion. 

“That’s impossible.”

\--- 

“Is this my career? God, mate, I hope not. If I had to talk about  _dinghy_  hooks and  _clew_ hooks and  _lacing_  hooks for the rest of my life, I’d rather lose a limb…then again…If I ever left this company, what would I do with all of this useless knowledge? For instance: the best footblocks to use on a keelboat. Or Swan’s favorite drink – which is hot chocolate with cinnamon.”

\---

While David is carefully inspecting the rather large, lavender shellacked lima bean, Killian widen his eyes at Emma over the man’s head, which is ducked between them. She juts out her bottom jaw slightly and waggles her head with childish delight, and to hell with everything else, if this isn’t the best day he’s had all month.

This is their routine, when the crushing monotony of Storybrooke Sailing and Sundry begins to eat away at them. He leads, she follows, she throws, he catches, and it would be insanely wonderful if it weren’t also so incredibly painful at times.

(Those times are when he’s away from the office, when he’s at home in his one-bedroom apartment above the marina, heating a Hungry Man dinner in his twenty-year-old microwave. Sometimes he imagines returning to England, but mostly he imagines how loudly Emma would laugh if they replaced all the keys on David’s keyboard with the letter “Q.”)

“This is far too dangerous for you to have, Emma,” David intones with deep, deep concern. 

“But what if I jumped into another world and found the cure for cancer?” His Swan, a bloody natural. 

The man, who he is so found of “amiably terrorizing” (Swan’s term, not his), seems to be intent on saving the world from the ramifications of “cross-dimensional interuniversal peregrination.” 

“I’m just going to have to take this off your hands,” he sighs as though he feels very badly for his actions.

Emma makes a swipe for the bean, “I paid for that!”

“With great power comes great responsibility, Emma,” he scolds her.

Really, Nolan knows better at this point than to lecture Emma Swan, and judging by the way the muscle of her jaw clenches, he’s about to become intimately familiar with this lesson again. 

“Swan,” Killian reaches out a warning hand to touch her elbow gently – a reminder that, as she would say, ‘no pain, no gain,’ this is all part of the spectacle – when he hears his name shouted across the drone of copiers and monitors. 

“Jones!” 

Emma’s body pulls tight as a wire, and she jerks roughly away from him in a way she never does and this was all pretend, of course.

“Ah, Neal,” Killian nods, schooling his resentment and pain into an absolutely knavish grin. “A pleasure as always.”

The heat of Emma’s glare isn’t entirely foreign, but it’s certainly unpleasant, and Neal’s level stare could knock down a lesser man. “What the hell is this, Jones?”

Emma steps forward, and she looks so worn he wants her to just  _rest_  and that was the whole  _point_ of this bloody exercise. “Stop it, Neal,” she rests her hand on his forearm, “We were just having some fun.”

His nostrils flare, and Killian (for the hundredth, millionth time) cannot comprehend why Emma believes this is what she deserves.

“It sure looked like it.”

“No harm meant,  _mate,_ ” he bites the word out, and  _how is he not good enough, how is Neal what she wants_.

The sympathetic glance Emma throws at his isn’t hers to give. She’s so strong, and she doesn’t even know it. “Let’s go home, Neal. Henry’s probably hungry.” 

Neal nods, a placating gesture, a threatening thing as he keeps Killian in his view. “Yeah. Yeah, babe, of course.” 

As Emma turns, she smiles at him, brittle and cracked, and still so lost, just like him. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he returns quietly. 

And today that’s enough.

\---

“Do I think they’ll get married? I don’t know, I guess if Swan wants to. Might be good for the lad, have his father around. I just hope Emma is happy, is all. In whatever she chooses.” 

\--- 

When he throws down his messenger bag the next day, he finds a small flower pot resting on top of his annual report, a tiny, green sprout jauntily peeking from beneath the soil.

He turns to look at Emma, who is monitoring his moves with trepidation.

“What’s this, then?” He holds up the offending item.

She shrugs self-consciously, and he wants to undo the day before (not the  _entire_ day). “I thought you could use a beanstalk of your own.”

There’s that pang in his chest that he can’t seem to skirt, the one that keeps him here in this town, in this dead-end job, and he’s sunk, all right. 

“It’s perfect, Swan.” 

Her whole being seems to ease with his use of her nickname, and he likes that he can do that to her (he wonders if Neal makes her laugh).

“But,” he plops down animatedly, rests his hands behind his head in a faux casual position. “It wasn’t a total wash.” 

She smiles ( _smiles)_ , “Oh yeah?”

 “Sold myself a magic bean.”

Killian nearly gives himself away when she lights from within, a soul returning to a hallowed place. “You did, did you?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Nolan was more than happy to meet my initial demand of one year’s supply of Omaha Steaks mailed straight to my door.”

When she giggles it echoes through the office.

\---

“I’m not sure where I see myself in three years, honestly. I’m kind of just living day to day, but, uh, Killian thinks he’s found a way to move David’s desk to the roof, so today’s a good day. Really good, yeah.”


	2. Aventures Gastronomiques

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian and Emma are working late - the perfect chance for Killian to showcase his culinary skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right. I didn't intend to revist this universe, but now it won't leave me. So...there might be a few one-shot updates from time to time...

“Come on, Killian. Where are we going?”

She sighs and folds her arms, and he can’t help but grin at her frustration. “If I told you, that’d ruin the fun, Swan,” he sends he an exaggerated leer, “And I promised you fun.”

Her eyebrow doesn’t move from its place high on her forehead.

Hastily, he rolls up his sleeves to his elbows, “So, do you have them?”

Raising her arm, she reveals two soda bottles dangling from her finger on a near-empty six-pack ring.

“Excellent,” he claps his hands together loudly, “Let’s go then, shall we?”

—-

“We have to work late tonight - quarterly numbers are due - and David is supervising - which I am sure I don’t need to tell you is a  _literal_ living nightmare - so…I figured, relaxation was in order. Not to mention something is bothering Swan - she could use a homemade meal.”

—-

When they reach the top of the building’s roof, the sun is just beginning to fall behind the horizon, and the lights along the docks are buzzing to life.

“Dinner with a view!” He hollers happily, presenting two beach chairs to her with a sweeping gesture.

“You made me dinner?” She looks doubtful, but there’s a pleased gleam in her eye that fuels him.

“Aye,” he places his hand on her back gently (and it’s warm and soft and - ), leading her to her place. Sitting in his own seat, he grabs at a wrapped baking pan from a cardboard box he’d carried up the ladder half hour earlier.

With a bit of a flourish, he whips off the aluminum foil, “Bon apetit!”

She shakes her head with a throaty chuckle. “Jello?”

“ _Blue_  Jello,” from his pocket he pulls two spoons and fans them in front of her face.

Grabbing one with faked (he hopes) anger, she gives an exaggerated sigh. “Is this all we have to eat?”

He watches as she heaps a shaking spoonful into her mouth, the corners curling upward, and his stomach lurches just slightly left of center. “Course not, what kind of gourmand do you take me for?”

Again, he reaches into the box and produces another covered casserole dish. She leans forward expectantly, and makes a gesture of impatience.

When he pulls back the foil, her brows furrow. “ _More_  Jello?”

“ _Green_ Jello, Swan!”

And if he’d felt that familiar stir before, her endearingly exasperated expression has him nearly failing to keep up any pretense.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I am not,” he scoffs. “Gelatin - plenty of protein! Not to mention your daily recommended serving of Blue Dye 1. Basically the whole food pyramid.”

Her rumbling laugh pangs off the walls of the building top and the echos of it hit him twice as hard. “What if I’m allergic to Blue Dye?”

“Well, then it’s a good thing you’re only allergic to penicillin, otherwise I’d have to eat all of this delicious - and  _nutritious_  - food myself.” Her laughter stutters to a stop at his words, and he quickly busies himself pulling sections of paper towels from the box, setting them in their laps.

When he looks up at her, she is silently contemplating his form, bent over in the folding beach chair. “Yeah. Good thing.”

——

“I guess Killian and I know a lot about each other. I mean, we spend eight hours a day, five days a week together - we all do. You’re bound to find out things about other people when they’re with you a majority of the time. Is  _Killian_  allergic to anything? No, I don’t think so. But he  _really_  hates bologna.”

—-

They’ve been sitting in silence - a comfortable, draping sort of quiet - watching the blink of the buoys and the comings and goings of boats to port for the better part of an hour. It’s just like always - they talk about Kim and Kanye’s recent wedding, David’s sudden and disturbing proclivity to leather - when she finally lets out a long sigh.

He’s been waiting all day for her to unload whatever burden she’s carrying visibly on her shoulders, but he keeps his mouth shut, his eyes trained forward. This is just like always, too.

“Neal asked me to marry him,” she takes a great spoonful of blue Jello.

“Oh?” It takes all of his will power to level his voice, to keep his vision staring ahead.

“Yep,” she pops the end of the word, then taps her spoon against her teeth.

He finally allows himself to turn his head (when he thinks his chest won’t cave in at the sight of her eyelashes and hair and cheeks glowing in the flourescent light of the roof). “And what did you say?”

She looks at him, and turns her lips down with a shrug - it’s her defense mechanism (he’s seen it too many times to count). “I told him I’d think about it.”

“Right.” The sugar in his stomach is starting to eat at him, and he’s sure that’s why he’s nauseated. “Well, I’m sure you’ll do whatever makes you happiest.”

“Yeah,” she look down at her fingers - electric blue at the tips - and he wonders if she met his eyes right now, if he’d be able give her the reassuring smile he’s grown accustomed to giving.

But she doesn’t look at him.

“Crap,” she curses, gestures to the nearby clock tower glowing 8:15. “It’s late - I should get home to make sure Neal’s fed Henry dinner and got him ready for bed.”

“Of course,” Killian stands on shaky feet, and finally pulls out a grin, “You head home to the lad, Swan. I’ll clean this up.”

She shuffles her feet, and sinks her hands into her back pockets, the universal gesture for unsaid words. “Well, thanks, Killian. For dinner.”

She gives a small smile and he can’t help but return it. “Any time, Swan.”

——

“It wasn’t how I had  _envisioned_ a dinner with Emma going, but, uh, I’m just glad I got to spend time with her you know? We’re friends - good friends - and it’s always nice to spend time with friends.”


End file.
